the electromorphosis*…

by Lee Rourke

As Sam Gregson awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself
transformed in his bed into a gigantic anachronism. He was lying, as it
were, in strange new garments that clung to his now skinny frame like an
all-encompassing exoskeleton. What am I wearing? he thought. He looked
towards his large awkward feet. He was wearing an old bedraggled pair of
Converse All-Stars. He gulped. He immediately felt appalled, the right sole
had a hole large enough for him to poke and wiggle his big toe out from. A
tight pair of black Wrangler jeans - worn, with holes above each bony
kneecap - hugged his thin, skeletal, almost stick-insect-like legs. He
looked down at the grey T-shirt that hugged his ribcage. Who the fuck are
MC5? And why am I so painfully thin all of a sudden? he thought. What has
happened to me? It was no dream. He knew that much. He eventually lifted his
now asymmetrical head up from his pillow and looked about his room. What has
happened to all my belongings? he thought. What are all these glossy
magazines lying around? These dreary posters of art I don’t understand?
Where are all my books? As he lay there wondering why he was awake so
stupidly early Mrs Gregson - his mother - made her way up the creaking
stairs towards his room with his morning cup of tea. As she did every
morning at this time. She hummed a favourite tune as she did every morning
also. She knocked on his door. She knocked again without thinking. No
answer. A strange thought gripped her. Sam. Sam. No answer. Sam. Sam. She
called again but he did not make a sound. This is most odd. What is he
doing? she thought. Sam Gregson lay perfectly still. How is it possible to
get back to sleep through all this ear-splitting noise? he thought. He
looked over to his alarm clock. My god! It’s seven o’clock! This is madness!
he thought. He rolled out of his bed and slumped onto the carpet,
immediately reaching for a packet of Lucky Strike on his bedside table. He
lit up without a thought and inhaled deeply. He had never smoked a cigarette
before and was astonished at how easily the thick blue smoke trickled down
into his awaiting lungs. I’ve never tasted anything so good! he thought. He
looked about his room. He crawled up to his feet and walked over to his
full-length mirror. He looked at himself. His hair had changed beyond all
recognition, into a style he had never seen before. I have a fringe! he
thought. And it’s longer at the back, and sides, it’s sharply feathered,
it’s jet black. I have fucking jet black hair! He looked down at his scrawny
form - he was stood cocked, with more body weight on his left leg. The right
hung lightly like a cat’s turning to lick its back. He dropped his right
shoulder and tilted his asymmetrical head to the left. His eyes hung heavy
on his pale face like two gnarled oyster shells. He looked awkward and
insect-like. It felt good and he wished his mother would leave him alone. He
wanted to be alone. He wanted isolation. I shall lock myself in here until
she leaves, he thought. Strangely happy. Mrs Gregson made her way back up
the creaky stairs to his room - this time with verve. Sam! Sam! What’s wrong
with you? She kicked his door now. Sam! Sam! Answer me at once! She waited.
She heard slow movement. Sam! Sam! What are you doing? What is that? Is that
smoke? Are you smoking in there? I have your breakfast ready!. It was at
this moment she heard it. A strange antediluvian noise emanating from behind
the door. It was her son Sam Gregson. It didn’t sound like him. But it was.
It was definitely her son. It was a drawl, an ironic earthy cold utterance.
Go away mother and leave me alone. I don’t like your food. I’m going back to
bed, the sunlight hurts my eyes, she heard him sneer. But I have breakfast
for you. It’s here, ready! she implored. FEED IT TO THE DOGS YOU FUCKING
SLAVE! came the acerbic clamour from behind the door. Mrs Gregson shrieked
and ran back down the creaky stairs. She didn’t understand what was
happening. Mrs Gregson’s son had changed for the worse. Sam Gregson smiled
and turned from the door. I feel cut off, he thought. Alienated. I like it.
He noticed a pile of CD’s beside his unkempt bed and walked over to them. He
reached out his pale bony arm and flicked through them. Who the fuck are
Fischerspooner? Who are The Paddingtons? Art Brut? What is Felix Da
Housecat? Needful Things? I have never owned music like this. He picked up
one of the CD’s and put it on. The music hit him. His guts turned. He wasn’t
hungry. This was what he needed now. This was his sustenance. This was his
food. A new language. He put out his cigarette in a empty beer can and
immediately lit up a second. He somehow felt alive and his growing
alienation and misanthropy comforted him like a soft warm blanket. He
understood nothing and this strange insect-like solipsism that now enveloped
him made him smile. I am alone, he thought. But surely there are other
people like me. I’ll go out tonight, when it’s dark, and try and find a
like-minded species. Maybe I’ll fit in… 

Lee Rourke (with apologies to Mr Kafka) 

 

One Response to “the electromorphosis*…”

~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, May 4th, 2005 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~